They thought at first that she had come upon some errand, but she had not. She gave no reason for her presence other than she would have given in making any call of ceremony. As she sat on the narrow sofa, she saw all the room and its meagerness,--its smallness, its scant, plain furnishing; its ugly carpet and walls; the straight, black dress of the older woman, the dark beauty of the girl who did not sit down but stood behind her chair, watching. This beauty was the only thing which relieved the monotony of the place, but it was the most grating thing she saw, to Rachel Ffrench. It roused within her a slow anger. She resented it and felt that she would like to revenge herself upon it quietly. She had merely meant to try the effect of these people and their surroundings upon herself as a fine experiment, but the effect was stronger than she had anticipated. When she went away Christian accompanied her to the door. In the narrow passage Rachel Ffrench turned and looked at her--giving her a glance from head to foot. "I think I have seen you before," she said. "You _know_ you have seen me," the girl answered. "I have seen you on the Continent. Your apartment was opposite to ours in Paris--when you were with your mother. I used to watch the people go in and out. You are very like your mother." And she left her, not looking back once,--as if there was no living creature behind, or as if she had forgotten that there was one. Christian went back to the room within. She sat down but did not take up her work again. "Do you know why she came?" she asked. "Yes." "Why?" "She came to look at us--to see what manner of people we were--to see how we lived--to measure the distance between our life and hers. As she went away," she went on, "she remembered that she had seen me before. She told me that I was very like my mother." She leaned forward, her hands clasped palm to palm between her knees.